"verv" poems
He tasted like cigarettes and baser intentions
The spiced hint of whiskey on his thunderstorm tongue
The kind of rebellion that young girls lie for
With soft, swollen lips, and nowhere to run
City of rust punctured by stone
Where the rain only stops for the snow
Painting with a palette of opiates and pocket change
She'll christen the night with a smoke
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC